


Agent John Locke: You Only Think Twice

by TheEdnaMan



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Cultural References, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Humour, Parody, Philosophical References, Philosophy, Pratchettian Style, Satire, Shout Outs, Spy Fiction, Wordplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEdnaMan/pseuds/TheEdnaMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Locke is a philosopher, empiricist, and a clandestine operative who likes his tuxedos pressed and his Discourse martinis "spoken, not slurred". After a botched mission leaves his neck open like a guillotined monarch (don't worry, he gets better), his superior Aristotle sends him on an assignment to recover Bacon's Four Idols, powerful philosophical artifacts that when brought together could erase reality. But everybody knows that the Four Idols are only a myth...</p><p>Forced to work with a motley crew of philosophers, theorists, and the beguiling figure of Agent Sophia Wisdom, John Locke must arm himself with the most cunning paradox engines and philosophical gadgets, and race across the globe in search for the (allegedly) nonexistent artifacts while battling existential villains and their nihilistic henchmen.</p><p>Filled with espionage parody, chock full of terrible wordplay, and crammed to the brim with references to philosophers past and presently dead, You Only Think Twice is a hilarious, and hopefully thought-provoking story for enthusiasts of both spy fiction and the philosophical treatise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Locke Down

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all you _Lost_ fans, this one isn't for you, sorry.
> 
> Have had this idea for a while and I'm currently sitting down to put it into words. This is a work in progress and still very susceptible to changes as I make rounds and rounds of edits. Comments and things like that would be great! 
> 
> Thanks for dropping by, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

It would be years before Agent John Locke would sit down in a quiet country house in Essex, casually wipe the lenses of his reading glasses with a handful of shirt, and start writing what would become the thrilling bestseller _Memoria Damnum_. As far as books went, this seemed to have three separate volumes packed into one. Part memoirs, part philosophical treatise, and part exposé on the hitherto unrecognised field of ideaspionage, Agent John Locke’s first and only published piece of writing garnered almost as much controversy as it did sales.

The layperson would tell you that the controversy was due to the fact that many major governments were prepared to swear on their election results that ideaspionage did not exist. Others would dispute that John Locke was a real person, for when reporters combed the London suburbia for the chance of an exclusive interview, they found no trace of the man, leading many to claim that the book was fiction masquerading as fact. These were the casual critics.

But the _causal_ critics, the hardcore critics, the critics with long, grey beards you could trip over and the capacity to devour essays in a single afternoon like they were a sidebar of tweets; they would bring you into a dark corner of their wall-to-wall libraries, and, over a snifter of aged brandy, whisper fervently that the real reason for the controversy was that nobody could agree on how it began.

In his book, Agent John Locke had written that it had all started from the explosion. One faction argued that the story could not possibly have begun with an explosion, because explosions weren’t just some “big bang”; explosions were an effect, and thus something must have caused it. And whatever caused the explosion would have had a cause as well, and that would have its own cause, etcetera, all the way back to the whatever first caused the chain of events to occur.

Their opponents argued that it was written down in the book that it all started with an explosion, and who were we to disbelieve the guy who wrote it? They reasoned that it is not like we were there to see it, but the writer had, and so if he says it started with an explosion then it started with an explosion! End – or, more appropriately, beginning – of story.

It is an argument which has raged for some time, and, as such arguments tend to be, will go on for some time more.

There was a small, third faction whose thoughts were more inclined towards literary pursuits, and they reasoned that if a writer wanted to start his story in medias res, then he jolly well could.

Agent John Locke dived into a nearby hut as the shockwave hit, carrying with it a shower of shrapnel and splinters. The walls swayed and creaked, but, miraculously, the structure stood. And after a few moments, so did John Locke.

He risked a cautious peep out the doorway. Most of the village had been flattened by the explosion; bits of wood and thatch littered the muddy earth, sending up little streams of smoke. It was a good thing that the village was empty. The locals had all but fled in terror earlier from the man who was now walking up to the shiny golden statue. It was all that remained of the shrine now that it was spending its time as a smouldering crater.

John Locke focused on the man, who was now inspecting his nostrils in statue’s reflection. The high forehead looked familiar, and so did the bald spot on the top of his head, a bare patch of skin hemmed in by a fence of hair that make him look like a friar. The attire was new, though; it gave the vague impression of military fatigues, cut and thrown together from many different interpretations of what a soldier should wear. But what sealed the deal for John Locke was the mad glint in the man’s eye, a glint so malevolent that it appeared to have a life of its own.

Sighing, John Locke pulled out a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket, brushed some dust off his immaculately-pressed suit – which, against all odds, was still immaculately-pressed – and strode out nonchalantly into the debris.

The other man was staring fixedly at the golden idol and speaking into a handheld radio. John Locke managed to catch the words “...yeah, landin’ site’s clear o’ buildin’s an’ trees an’ stuff. ‘Ead fer the smoke. Don’t know how th’ bird’s goin’ ter carry this, though...” before he flicked open his lighter and lit his cigarette, causing the other man to look up.

“Afternoon, Bill,” John Locke said casually, proffering his packet. “Care for a stick?”

“As I live an’ breathe,” said the man called Bill, snapping his radio shut. He spoke cheerfully, as a father would to a long-lost son. But the mad glint had leaped forward almost immediately, inspecting the newcomer from all angles and sizing him up. “If it ain’t young Johnny Locke, m’ bestest pupil. Yer scared th’ livin’ daylights out o’ me, yer did. What can ol’ Mister Ockham do yer fer, out here in th’ middle o’ nowhere?” He gestured vaguely at the charred grass.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” said John Locke, exhaling and doing nothing to improve local air pollution levels. “Dropping your weapons, surrendering, coming along quietly and telling me who hired you, that sort of thing.”

Bill Ockham laughed, a loud booming laugh that nevertheless failed to contain a trace of humour. “Yer know I can’t do that, Johnny m’boy. Yer know ‘ow yer boss’s always sayin’ that all th’ things o’ this earth are pointin’ towards good? Well, I’m choosin’ ter act knowin’ly towards m’ ultimate evil, so’s ter speak.”

“He used to be your boss, too,” said John Locke, sticking his free hand into his suit pocket. “How’d you break out, anyway?”

“‘It was simple, really,” said Bill, flashing him a smile. It was a dagger of a smile: small, glinting, and dangerous. “I cut m’ own way out.”

John Locke blew a puff of smoke. He remembered William “Bill” Ockham. It was hard not to. He insinuated himself into your memory like a knife between ribs. He had been one of the Consortium’s best and most ruthless melee fighters, and had been John Locke’s personal trainer in close combat training. He was a devil with a blade. Many a gunman had borne down on Bill Ockham, sneering, and they would inevitably taunt him with some quote like “you shouldn’t have brought a knife to a g-” and before they could finish, they’d be clutching at their necks, trying to stop the blood spurting. Of course, this was all before the arrest, but the man did not seem to have let his skills waste away.

Bill Ockham was a simple man, and people mistook that for “safe”. Bill Ockham was simply dangerous. He had a mind like a razor blade. It was smooth, it was sharp, and it could kill.

“Yes, I recall your escape. The cell bars, three titanium security doors, a reinforced concrete wall, and the throats of six guards. The cleanup was a nightmare.”

“I weren’t supposed ter be in there, anyways.”

“How do you figure that one out?”

“Well, I reckon ‘s because of th’ guv’ment, ain’t it?” he sniffed, idly scratching his chin. “All I did was ‘ave a bit o’ nominal religious standin’. Tha’s all! A religious position, was all I ‘ad! Oh, I might’ve killed a coupla people,” he said airily, “but I reckon it ain’t th’ guv’ment’s place ter lock me up.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“It’s ‘cos the guv’ment’s not supposed ter tell me what ter do, I reckon. That’s God’s job, that is, ter tell right from wrong, not th’ guv’ment’s.” Bill Ockham’s face radiated innocence. “All’s they supposed ter be able ter do is ter say whose stuff belongs ter who, and pick who’s gunna take their place. That’s all. So I simply decided ter cut out th’ middle man and hightail it out o’ th’ country, thought that’s neither ox or donkey now.”

At the word “cut”, John Locke’s eyes had caught movement; Bill had produced a small object from his person. It seemed like an ordinary barber’s razor, but as Bill began flicking it open and shut absentmindedly, John Locke could hear the blade whistling as it slid through the air, accompanied by a faint sizzling sound on the edge of hearing, like a kind of background static. He thought it sounded like the screams of air molecules as they were sliced in half.

“I don’t think we can be any judge of religious standpoints, Bill,” John Locke said, moving around statue, partially to give it a closer inspection, but mostly to keep something sturdy in between him and Bill Ockham.

It was a sculpture of a leg, life-sized, from the knee down to the foot, and intricately carved in such fine detail that he could have accounted for each and every one of the leg hairs, if he wanted to. It was one of the strangest statues he had ever seen; he had witnessed his fair share of dismembered body parts in his line of work, but none of them had been cast out of solid gold.

“And I think the government is very clear when they say that this, uh, stuff–” he gestured at the golden leg, “–doesn’t belong to you.”

John Locke tapped his cigarette, adding a drop of ash into the ocean of cinders. Aside from the crackling of Bill’s blade, John Locke became aware of another sound, the low throb of a helicopter, getting louder. He hoped that it was his reinforcements, and not Bill’s.

“What’s your game, anyway?” he asked. “How did a once-valued combat instructor and concealed edged-weapon specialist at the Consortium become a glorified thief and henchman for some shadowy higher power? Who’re you working for?”

“What makes yer think I’m workin’ fer someone?” Bill drawled, slowly. He had also heard the whirring of the blades, and flashed the dagger smile. “Like I said, innit? Ol’ William Ockham’s ‘is own master, an’ ‘e answers ter no-one.”

“Oh please,” said John Locke scathingly. “This hasn’t got your name all over it. You wouldn’t muck about with explosives. You wouldn’t hire a mercenary chopper, assuming that’s your chopper and not my reinforcements. And even if you did, you wouldn’t have the brains or foresight to clear a landing zone for it. As evil schemes go, it’s too elaborate for you.”

“Why, we’ve got a regular Sherlock ‘Olmes ‘ere, ‘aven’t we?” Bill was still smiling, but his amicable voice had soured into a growl.

“If this was your heist,” said John Locke, still stalling for time, “you’d stroll in under the cover of darkness and head straight for the target, slitting the throats of anyone who got in your way, and then hightailing it out on foot.” The sound of the helicopter was much louder now. John Locke could see that it wasn’t the sleek black Consortium chopper, but a unfamiliar dark green. He kept his composure and said simply, “This isn’t your style.”

Bill Ockham stared at John Locke with a murderous look in his eye. This was to the surprise and delight of his mad glint, who had long been the only optical anthropomorphic personification around these parts, and gladly welcomed a colleague who appeared to share its homicidal interests.

“Think yer’ve got me bang ter rights, do yer?”

“The conclusion was inevitable,” said John Locke, slowing reaching into his suit to replace his cigarette pack for his handgun. “The evidence was obvious.”

Unfortunately, Bill’s eyes caught the movement. His razor flicked open. “Oh no yer don’t-”

The helicopter burst over the edge of the clearing. Smoke and ash rode on the updrafts, swirling into John Locke’s face as he stumbled backwards, spluttering. Bill ducked around the statue and pounced on him in an instant, wrestling them both to the ground, his razor singing through the air like scythe of Death itself. John Locke’s arm came up and caught on Bill’s wrist, but Bill Ockham had a grip like the stocks of a guillotine, and John Locke only managed to stay the execution temporarily.

From his time in Colosseum, the Consortium’s training facility, John Locke knew that fighting Bill was a struggle to stay on top, because Bill Ockham was the kind of man who was always looking for that extra edge. Unfortunately, he quickly had John Locke pinned to the jungle floor, his free hand clamped around John Locke’s throat. John Locke’s fingers scrabbled uselessly.

“I don’t think yer could’ve learned more’n what yer teacher knows,” said Bill, grinning. A large shadow was hovering at the corner of his eye, and John Locke knew that Bill Ockham’s helicopter had touched down nearby. Bill glanced around for a second, and the dagger smile flashed across his lips.

“Because I’m a decent sort o’ bloke, I reckon I could give yer one last piece o’ advice before I take a bit too much off th’ top,” he said, leaning the razor on John Locke’s neck. A pearl of blood glistened where the metal met flesh. “I never told yer, did I? Do yer want ter know why I use a blade?”

John Locke was keenly uninterested. He could see men in ski masks jumping off the helicopter, and some were already hauling the golden leg across the mud. Bill was paying them no mind.

“Y’see, guns are too quick. Yer can’t savour all th’ little... emotions. They’re too complex, they are. Yer never ‘ave ter strip down a razor an’ assemble it back again in the dark night. Ways I see it, all things bein’ equal, an easier way ter kill yer is far better than one that’s complicated.”

John Lock wriggled in his grip, but to no avail. “Go to hell,” he spat.

Bill Ockham just grinned. “After you,” he said, and slashed.

At that point, time, it seemed to John Locke, slowed down. It is said that nothing focuses the mind like an impending hanging, but a good case could probably be made for an imminent beheading, if only a few more people could stay alive long enough to testify.

John Locke was unable to see the blade, but he could feel the cold steel dragging across his throat, and he was dead certain that if it sliced open his jugular, he wouldn’t be very certain and also very dead. He could see Bill Ockham grinning, his teeth glinting like a stiletto in the moonlight.

At least it wasn’t a stab in the back, he thought.

Then his heightened senses caught something. A hole had erupted in the shoulder of Bill’s leather jacket, followed by the low popping sound, like a firework from far away. There was a low, drawn-out bellow of pain, and as Bill arced backwards his razor slowly tumbled in the air, gleaming as it caught the sun.

He rolled over, left hand clasping his neck, and picked up the razor where it fell. He looked at it quizzically, as if he wasn’t currently in the immediate danger of bleeding to death. His eyes, which realised that they probably weren’t going to be around for much longer, turned in their ten-second notice and conceded him one last detail: the small letters engraved into the base of the blade in a flourishing, cursive script: “Fleet Street’s Finest”.

He pocketed it as he staggered to his feet. His vision was going dark around the edges, and his mind was flailing about erratically. _What kind of sharper tool could have etched calligraphy into an already sharp device?_ Not now, I need information on blood loss! _What engraves the engravers?_ Some method of staunching a jugular in the middle of the jungle would be nice! _Was this an ontological analogy for something or other?_ Please try to recall what the agent’s medical handbook had to say about severed throats! _Also, by the way, just thought I’d mention it, don’t want to be a bother, it’s a tiny little thing, but Bill Ockham is getting away._

That last thought lodged at the forefront of his consciousness. He couldn’t let his target get away. In his line of work, fatal injuries were seen as a minor handicap to completing the mission.

Time was still crawling. He swung round to the general direction of the helicopter. If he ignored the pain, he could just about make out Bill Ockham, a blurry blob surrounded by a sea of fuzzy dark green. He stumbled forward.

There was a shout from behind him, which sounded like “Get down!” in slow motion. He turned around, and was greeted by the sight of a dozen men dressed in about fifty shades of grey, all pointing rifles in his direction. But what worried him most was the woman, the rather attractive woman in the black, form-fitting combat suit, soaring towards him in midair, her brown hair billowing out behind her.

She collided into him, and as he fell gracefully towards the ground for the third time that day, he heard the low whine of bullets sailing overhead, and wondered if there were worse ways to die than from blood loss while being tackled to the ground by mysterious, rather attractive women.

Then his head hit a rock, and his mind went blank.


	2. Chapter Two: Through the Locke-ing Glass

Laughter hammered through the skull of Agent John Locke, and dragged him back to consciousness. Various aching body parts started vying for his attention. His right leg started kicking up a fuss, his abdomen complained that it couldn’t stomach this any longer, and his left arm very rudely flipped him the finger and began asking for handouts. His throat, however, was strangely mute, and wasn’t screaming in pain at all.

He did not open his eyes immediately, because John Locke was an experienced operative. You soon learned that, after being knocked unconscious by person or persons unknown, there are generally very few nice things you can expect to wake up to. However, he did seem to be lying on something soft, and he registered that there was a pillow under his head; he took this as two promising signs, but kept his ears open just in case.

“...wait, it gets better. When the patient woke up, his skeleton was missing, and the doctor was never heard from again! Hahahahaha!”

That one did not seem very comforting. Ignoring his screaming abdominals, he vaulted upright, crashed his head into the halogen lamps hanging overhead, and collapsed back onto the mattress.

“Ah, my patient is finally awake! I will have to call you back, Galen. Take care, friend.”

One hand nursing his forehead in an extended facepalm, John Locke opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Once the stars had cleared, he found himself face to face with a wrinkled smile below wire-rim glasses and a head whose hair had migrated south for the winter and liked the chin so much that it decided to stay there.

“How are you feeling, Mister Locke?” he asked.

John Locke let out a primal groan. “Hippo...crates?”

“Of Kos!” said the man called Hippocrates, and laughed. “Hahaha! I never get tired of that one.”

“Not... funny... doc.” John Locke said as he slowly propped himself up on one arm. Hippocrates was the best doctor the Consortium could afford, and the Consortium could afford the best. He was bustling around his workbench, in his grubby, off-white lab coat which hung on him like a toga. Like many of those who had to be patched up by Dr. “Oath” Hippocrates, John Locke respected the old man, but only grudgingly, because the good doctor had taken “bedside manner” to mean “amateur stand-up comedy night”. It was bad enough having a wound sewn shut without the surgeon trying to leave you in stitches.

“What... woman... Ockham... throat...?” His hand instinctively reached for his neck, and his searching fingers found a rectangle of material taped there.

“Ah,” said Hippocrates, pulling on a pair of thick rubber gloves, which he released with a loud snap. “Well I don’t know what happened to Mister Ockham, and I sure don’t know anything about any woman; but as for your throat, I sewed up your wound using a wishbone of a chicken and a horse’s hair, and then I applied an ointment made from intestines of a goat, two sprigs of wolfsbane picked at full moon and a dram of lunar caustic, all blessed by a priestess of the demi-goddess Hygeia, who-”

“Stop... kidding.”

“Oh come on,” said Hippocrates, visibly disappointed. “Where’s your sense of humours?”

“...drained.”

“Oh hahaha, I see what you did there, very witty, ho ho ho.” Hippocrates picked up a long metal instrument which would not have looked out of place in a medieval torture chamber. “If you must know, I sutured the wound shut with a surgical laser and stuck on a bio-regenerative patch which is slowly knitting the flesh back together. You’ll find talking a bit painful for now, but you’ll get better in a few hours. It’s a good thing Mister Ockham didn’t cut any deeper; he might have ruptured your windpipe.”

“Could... call it... close... shave.” John Locke sat on the edge of the examination bed, and looked around. He was in one of the Consortium’s medical facilities, surrounded by windowless white walls and sterile, lifeless implements.

Hippocrates was not amused. “If you’ve regained your faculties of speech enough to make unhumourous jokes, Mister Locke,” he said, opening a refrigerator with what looked suspiciously like human hearts lining its shelves, “I suggest you go and see the Brain. He informed me that he wished to see you immediately after you had regained consciousness.

“Talking... is... night... mare,” said John Locke hoarsely.

“No, that would be a horse in the dark.” He caught John Locke’s eye, and stopped laughing. “Not to worry, Mister Locke,” said Hippocrates, in a mildly affronted way, “I understand the Brain will be doing most of the talking.”

 

* * *

 

The Panopticon, headquarters of the secret global organization the Consortium, was so named because it was meant to observe the world in its entirety. It was a tall skyscraper lined with tinted windows, and its four walls tapered to a point at the top like an obelisk. The building was a pointed glass spike piercing the heavens.

John Locke made his way through the sleek corridors, heading for the Brain’s office. He passed few people along the way, so he only had to growl a few greetings and make a few curt nods as he made his way to the access point on the same floor as the medical facilities. It looked like an ordinary elevator entrance, but there were no buttons, only a fingerprint scanner with a brain motif watermarked on its surface. John Locke waited for a moment, then the doors slid open silently and he stepped in.

The Brain’s office was known amongst the his employees as The Think Tank. It was a large and cylindrical chamber, and rode up and down on a system of pulleys and gears in the hollow centre of the tower, appropriately called the Spine. Its floor, walls and ceilings were made of transparent, bulletproof plexiglass. The Brain sat ostensibly in the centre, surrounded by very normal furniture – a desk, a roller chair with leather upholstery, a set of drawers, and filing cabinets – but also surrounded by the entirety of the Consortium itself. The incumbent Brain enjoyed his office, and often wondered at the ironic wit of its designer: he could see everyone under his charge, but everyone else could also see him. He often quipped that for a secret organization, they sure placed a lot of emphasis on transparency.

“Good morning, Agent Locke,” said the Brain, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Morning... Tot,” rasped John Locke, automatically sticking his hands into his pockets and taking a quick glance around the room. He knew that Aristotle hated being called “Tot”, but always called him that anyway. He was rewarded by the short pause in shifting paper, which meant that his boss was quietly checking his patience to make sure it was still there.

Upon meeting Aristotle for the first time, people usually thought they were looking at the picture under the dictionary entry for “paper-pusher”. He wore a smart brown suit and sky-blue tie, which he often threw over his shoulder to keep it out of the way. With his shock of hair and full Hollywoodian beard which could only be described as “russet”, he looked like the kind of man who stayed up late in the office to file that one last tax return.

But Aristotle had not achieved the highest office[1] in the Consortium without a little bit of brains and a lot of cunning. In an industry where people usually rose to the top only because they knew how to put a bullet in a man at a hundred metres, Aristotle had gained his position because he knew how to put a bullet in a man halfway around the world. Sure, it got there by way of reconnaissance maps and ballistics requisition forms and logistics personnel and finally the barrel of the professional sniper, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Always be wary of the man who outsources death.

The Brain continued to move papers around on his desk, occasionally passing them under his eyes. “I heard about your unfortunate incident with our old friend Mister Ockham,” he said.

“Yeah,” muttered John Locke, unconsciously scratching at the patch on his neck. “I guess... you could... call it–”

“A close shave, yes,” interrupted Aristotle, as John Locke sauntered over to one of the cabinets. Its glass doors revealed a variety of bottles of various shapes and sizes, made of dark tinted glass and with colourful labels on the sides. John Locke couldn’t decide if a person standing in front of the cabinet would look like a bartender or a pharmacist.

“You... take all... the fun... out of... everything, Tot,” said John Locke.

Scribbling, Aristotle said, “You must be wondering why I called you here.”

“Not... really,” said John Locke, who had opened the cabinet and was inspecting one of the bottles. It had a skull and crossbones printed on its otherwise colourful label.

“All men by nature desire to know, Locke.”

“I’m... not... natural,” said John Locke, picking up another, slimmer bottle. This one had no label. He held it up to the light, and the weight shifted in such a way that suggested that it was not empty.

“Well, I would refrain from arguing with you there, Locke. I believe that each man judges well the things he knows.”

“You... should write... a book... Tot.” John Locke pulled out the stopper and sniffed the liquid. The smell hit him, a rank, unpleasant odour that for some reason put him in mind of parsnips. “Damn... Tot... you drink... the strongest... stuff.” He raised the bottle from his lips.

“I believe I have already written several. Don’t drink that, by the way,” he added, without looking up.

“Why... not...? Alcohol... kills... germs.”

“That would kill a bit more than just germs. That’s the hemlock poison that proved too fatal for my predecessor,” said Aristotle, calmly.

For a moment, the room was quiet. The Think Tank juddered slightly as it started its descent, down into the depths of the Panopticon. Rows of corridors slid past, upwards.

“Why... is it... in your... drinks... cupboard...?”

“I take a moderately small dose each day as a way of immunizing myself to its effects. Symbolically, of course, it represents my efforts to avoid the failings of those who came before me.”

“How... is dying... of poison... a failing...?”

“He failed to survive the poisoning,” said Aristotle.

John Locke stared at Aristotle for some time, then carefully put the bottle back in its place on the shelf. He pointed at another one and asked, “How’s... this... one?”

“It should be safe, but I’m sure your liver will disagree,” said Aristotle, stowing a file in his desk drawer. He looked up at John Locke. “Please sit down, Locke.”

John Locke took a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle and dropped into the chair facing his boss.

A large part of being a secret agent was looking the part, and a considerable proportion of John Locke’s training was devoted to behavioural etiquette; specifically, the upper-class etiquette of a billionaire who could afford to skirt the boundaries of upper-class etiquette. It mainly involved learning how to wear a suit all the time but without a tie and leaving the top two buttons of the shirt undone.

Therefore, John Locke didn’t just sit; he lounged. It didn’t matter if it was a chiffon chaise longue or a wooden milking stool. He could be sentenced to death by electrocution, and he would still be leaning back, legs crossed, with a martini dangling from his right hand as they pulled the switch.

“I’ve been debriefed about your encounter with Ockham,” said Aristotle, giving John Locke a piercing stare. “Unfortunately, he got away with the artefact, which we will have to retrieve as soon as poss–”

“What’s so important... ‘bout a statue, anyway?” interrupted John Locke.

Aristotle sighed. It was the sigh of a man who, having preached for moderation in all things for most of his life, was _this_ close to exploding with anger.

“Do you know what that statue was?”

“Not really,” admitted John Locke. His throat was feeling better. Hippocrates’s bio-bandage was working like a charm. He could practically string two words together.

Aristotle shifted a stack of papers, revealing a virtual keyboard projected in his see-through desk. He entered a few keystrokes, and the lights dimmed. The glass walls of the Think Tank transitioned through to dusky, then smoked.

“I am legally required to tell you, in the same way I was legally required to tell the few dozen other people I’ve already briefed, that this is top secret information, for your eyes and ears only, classified material, etcetera, etcetera,” he said, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Ah, here we are...” A holographic image of the statue had appeared in the air above the desktop, but it was in wireframe, with pointers to diagrams and other text boxes leading off it.

“The statue that you failed to retrieve is the only surviving Golden Calf of the Homophonists.”

John Locke looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard... of it.”

Sighing to himself, Aristotle explained.

The Homophonists were a small religious organisation who believed that the Powers That Be was a mid-Atlantic saltwater fish, who was at the same time a barber. They had started out as a minor Christian denomination in fifteenth century England which never seemed to gain much traction. A group of religious reformists had gotten together and decided that they had been reading the Bible all wrong, and set down to write the new, correct reinterpretation of the Holy Book. Unfortunately, while they were doing so, the Great Vowel Shift occurred; and around the same time, Johannes Gutenberg invented the printing press. And thus, through a series of unfortunate yet hilarious misunderstandings and a few moveable typos, they ended up as a sect who went around asking people if they wanted to be shaved by Cod.

The Golden Calf was one of a pair, created out of the very traditions of the Homophonist reading of the Bible. Aristotle explained that it was the only one that was left, because the right one was accidentally kneecapped centuries ago by one of their own abbots, who had heard that one of the legs was considered “sinister” in the old language. As the story goes, he pointed to one of the legs and asked the local castle governor if he should destroy that one.

“No, father, that’s the right one,” said the castellan.

“Ah, so this is the right leg to destroy?” asked the abbot.

“No, father, it’s supposed to be left alone,” said the castellan.

“But that’s the right leg?” asked the abbot.

“That’s right, father.”

“So I break the right one, and the other one will be left?”

“No, father,” said the castellan, “you break the left one, and then the right one will be left.”

“I don’t understand. You want me to destroy the left leg?”

“That’s right, father.”

“No, I’m pretty sure this is the left leg,” said the abbot, perplexed.

“Yes, it’s the right leg to be destroyed, father.”

“So I destroy the right one?”

“No, father,” said the castellan patiently, “the right leg is the wrong leg. It’s the left leg that is the right leg. If you destroy the left leg, then the right leg will be left.”

“Right!”

“No, father, that’s the wrong o–”

John Locke snorted, dotting the sleek tabletop with drops of whiskey. “That’s such a... stupid misunder...standing.”

“It was also a fatal one,” said Aristotle, dabbing at the mess with a handkerchief. “The abbot was later accused of being a heretical Heteronymite by some fundamentalists. He was eventually hanged, drawn and quartered.”

John Locke was not very good with history. “Drawn... as in... with a horse?”

“With a pencil, I believe. Which gave rise to a popular children’s game about guessing letters.”

“Ah.” John Locke’s faced screwed up in concentration. He had an impression that Aristotle was making fun of him, but he couldn’t be sure. He decided to ask the pertinent question.

“This golden statue... it’s very valuable, then?”

Aristotle nodded. “It holds great cultural and symbolic significance. According to the Homophonists’ Book of Axel Dust, the idols were made because the ancient Israelites ‘maid eh full off thee spoken whirred, witch insighted thee Lawed two lei waist too dam, an inn ate daze an ate knights Hee reigned down haught friars an bass-sick-lee beet damn inn-two paced.’”

“How’s that make... it valuable?”, said John Locke, taking another swig of whiskey.

“Well, apart from the fact that it is made of solid gold, it also is a parable about the failings of humanity.”

“Like his need for... a spellchecker?

“Indeed. Metaphorically speaking, of course. But besides its cultural value, the Calf is also a revered philosophical artefact.”

“So why was it in... the middle of the jungle? Why wasn’t it... more protected?”

“It was protected by obscurity. Who would have gone looking for it there?”

“Ockham did,” said John Locke. “I think he’s working for someone.”

“It appears so.” Aristotle’s brow furrowed as he steepled his hands together. “Unfortunately we do not know who his mysterious benefactor is.”

With a deep sigh, Aristotle stood up and went to stare out the glass walls of his room. The was a low _thunk_ , and the halogen lamps which lit the corridors swept past his field of vision in the opposite direction, keeping a slow rhythm with the low hum of the electric motors winching the Think Tank upwards.

“Why do things exist, John Locke?”

“That’s not really my... area of expertise,” croaked John Locke, polishing off the bottle of whiskey.

“Things come into existence due to four causes, Mister Locke. With the theft of the Golden Calf, I fear that right now the materials for disaster are being brought together with a ruthless efficiency. I know not what form the final product will take, but I am sure that its ultimate purpose will be devastating to mankind.”

“What?”

“It is just as I said, Agent Locke. We have just received intelligence reports from reconnaissance division. Agent Bacon’s reports suggest that a number of other philosophical artefacts are in perilous danger.”

John Locke nodded. He knew Francis in passing; he was a good recon agent. He was always very thorough in his search, and double-checked everything. Twice.

Aristotle tapped at the virtual keyboard again, and the wireframe diagram of the golden calf resized as three more images appeared, hovering in the air.

He sat back in his seat heavily. “The Four Idols,” he said.

John Locke stared at his superior through the ghostly forms. “The Four Idols? But they’re a myth! Everybody knows they can’t be real!”

“Oh, everyone says they ‘can’t be’ real,” said Aristotle, “but I don’t think anyone told that to the Idols.”

John Locke wasn’t paying attention. “The Four Idols. They don’t exist! Four philosophical artefacts of power, which when brought together will sunder reality, discorporate matter, and render time ephemeral...”

“Ah, so you are aware of the legends surrounding these artefacts?”

“They’re not real,” said John Locke, although his voice suggested that his geocentric conviction was being challenged by the Copernicus of doubt. “Although,” he added, “you do hear whispers...”

“I can tell you right now that these artefacts exist, Locke. We have known of their existence for some time. You have seen the Calf with your own eyes, have you not?”

“Yeah,” said John Locke automatically, “but that does not mean that the other three exist, or are what you claim them to be. That’s inductive reasoning, that is.”

“Nevertheless, they exist. This is fact. We had not known where the Idols are, but the theft of the Golden Calf indicates the other three are in jeopardy. Our intelligence operates are now scouring the globe for traces of them.”

“Even if I accept that these... things exist, Tot, I can’t see how they are related,” said John Locke, peering at the four floating images. “They don’t seem to have anything in common.”

“Their forms only hint to their universal essences,” murmured Aristotle. He was staring at the holographic projection, trance-like.

John Locke hesitated. Tot was in one of his funny moods, when his mind had raced ahead, and your brain had to run to keep up.

“Then how do you know the other three are in danger?”

“Mmm?”

“I said, how do you know the other three are in danger, Tot?”

Aristotle tore his gaze from the images. “What is knowledge, but demonstrable fact?” he mused. “We have run some simulations. Prior analytics all point to catastrophe.”

John Locke glanced from the images to Tot’s serious face, and a conclusion formed on the high shelves of his mind. He jumped to it. “You want me to get them, don’t you?”

“I would like you to retrieve the rest of the Idols, yes, and return back to the Panopticon for safekeeping.”

“I’m not doing it,” said John Locke, flatly. “It was your simulations which led me to the middle of the jungle, where I almost ended up whistling through my windpipe. Doc Oath says I’m supposed to be recuperating, and–”

“Your speech patterns have greatly improved over the time you spent in my office, Locke. I’m sure Doctor Hippocrates will be able to patch the rest up before you go.” He pressed a button, and the glowing images vanished. As the lights came back on, Aristotle leaned forward, but his face still seemed clouded.

“This is matter of philosophical importance, John. The world is at stake.”

John Locke hesitated. He was speaking normally, but his throat still ached. And Hippocrates’ bandage, while extremely effective, was not very stylish.

But... the world was at stake. He had always believed that you had to fight for the right to life. And if the entirety of existence was being threatened, then fighting for your right to exist seemed like a logical next step.

“If you’re sending me on some wild goose chase, Tot...” John Locke began.

“I do not believe in the immaterial, Agent Locke, whether it be ghosts or conclusion, and neither should you. This untamed migratory waterfowl is real, and time is of the essence. Your partners for this mission have been briefed prior to this, and are waiting for you in the Symposium. Stop by the Hephaestium on the way down, tell P that I’ve put you on the case–”

The words had reached John Locke’s ears but they failed to register the first time around. Only when the echoed in the cavern of his mind did he sit bolt upright.

“Did you say ‘partners’?”

“I believe so.” Aristotle continued, “As I was saying, tell P to–”

“With other agents?” said John Locke.

“Why, yes. Is there a problem?”

“I work alone, Tot!” cried John Locke indignantly. “I’ve always worked alone! I work better alone! I don’t need a bunch of other agents tripping me up!”

“You’ve never had any complaints about your colleagues before this,” said Aristotle.

“Yes, because we worked different missions!”

Aristotle shook his head. “I’m sorry, Agent Locke, but your performance with William Ockham indicates that you’re going to need the backup. Whoever is behind the Idol theft is going to be throwing out their best men.”

“I’m your best man!” shouted John Locke.

“The wedding was thirty years ago, Locke,” said Aristotle calmly. “I need more boots on the ground for this. Well, in this case, I need more Armani luxury leather shoes on the ground, as it were. You’ll lead the first team to the rendezvous point. Bacon says he’s pretty sure that there’s one there.”

“I’ll... I’ll do it myself! I’ll go down to see old P and get suited up and– hang on... did you say _first_ team?”

“I believe I did,” said Aristotle, calmly. “There is too much at stake to send out just a single field unit. Time is, as I have mentioned earlier, of the essence. I’ve got two more teams of top agents on standby, ready to move out the minute we locate the other three Idols.”

“Assign my team to them, then! I’m flying this one solo.”

Aristotle blinked. “As you wish, then.” He retrieved his pen from a corner of his desktop. “You can settle this on your own.”

“That’s right,” said John Locke, smugly.

“I’ll just have to reassign your team.”

“Damn straight.”

“I only hope and Aquinas and Wittgenstein don’t mind the extra hands,” sad Aristotle conversationally. “I believe P has already kitted them out–”

John Locke blanched. “What?!”

“Kitted out, as I understand the term, means getting their equipment and–”

“No, you said something about the other team leaders?”

“You mean Aquinas? I’ve heard nothing but sterling reports about him, and as for young Wittgenstein–”

“No offence,” interjected John Locke, “but Aquinas couldn’t lead the way out of a wet paper bag! And as for ‘young Wittgenstein’, the only things that will follow him are hyenas, and that’s only if he dips himself in barbeque sauce first! They’re amateurs! Rookies! They don’t have the experience or the expertise to lead a group of top agents!”

“Whereas you’re saying that you do?”

“Of course I do! I’m the best and you kn–oh.” John Locke stopped, with the expression of a man standing in the corner of the room, staring at the floor, with the paintbrush still wet.

“Excellent! I’m sure your team will benefit from all the expertise and experience you will undoubtedly impart to them.”

Grumbling, John Locke stood up. He hated working with other agents, they got in the way, their chatter was distracting, and they always messed up his chances of hooking up with the beautiful w–

He was halfway to the entrance hatch when he stopped and turned around.

“Is, uh, is the lady who tackled me going to be there?” he asked casually.

“I’m sorry?” said Aristotle. He had turned back to the paperwork on his desk.

“The lady who saved my life in the jungle.” John Locke tried to trawl his memory for details that weren’t about blood. “Uh, tall, dark hair, wears the black combat suit...”

Aristotle considered this for a moment. “Would you say this combat suit was, shall we say, figure-hugging?”

The image was seared into John Locke’s memory. “Yes, very much so.”

“Ah, you are referring to Miss Wisdom. She will meet you in the Symposium as well. Rather charming young lady. Just transferred from our European branch. You’ll be wanting to thank her, of course, and I daresay that she’ll want– _DO REMEMBER TO DROP BY THE HAPHAESTIUM ON YOUR WAY­–_ ” he called after the retreating figure of John Locke as he raced down the corridor.

Aristotle sighed, and turn over a piece of paper. “I’m sure you two will get on _similis_ _domus in igni_ ,” he said to no-one in particular.

 

[1]Though depending on where it was along the Spine, it was sometimes the lowest.


	3. Chapter 3

There have been numerous studies which show that people perform better when they are ever so slightly drunk. There is a sensation, somewhere between half and three-quarters of the way down your second drink of the day; that sensation you feel where anything is possible. Much of modern society owes its debt to the Neolithic caveman who fermented the first alcoholic beverage, and opened his mind to the hallucinations of possibility. And of course, a light infusion of ethanol, but not too much, is the grease in which the wheels of thought turn.

Mankind recognised the importance of new ideas early on, and therefore invented the bar. The lowered inhibitions allow a significant number of ideas, which would never have seen the light of day otherwise, to be articulated, or perhaps slurred, with enthusiasm and vigour. These ideas are then pitted against the collective intellect of the bar’s patrons, in a kind of ideological cage match. In this process the weaker ideas are weeded out, and the strong ideas survive, inhabiting the minds of the tipsy and the inebriated, who then bring these ideas to fresh arenas in the hallowed tradition of the pub crawl.

This was the foundational theory that the Symposium was built upon. Some of the best philosophical minds in the world, gathered together under one roof and fuelled with the best watered-down wine that money can buy, could only produce the very best in ideological conceptualisation. What the planners and designers failed to take into consideration, however, is that the other use of alcohol is as a solvent: a caustic liquid for dissolving the memories of things that you have seen and don’t want to see again, especially before you wake up sweating and screaming in the middle of the night.

John Locke was standing outside the Symposium. He had been through those doors many times over his career, usually just after a mission. There were the occasions where he strode in, confident and debonair; but more often than not, he would trudge in, weary and bloodstained. This time, it was neither. He had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that he associated with indigestion.

Subconsciously, he licked his fingers and ran them through his hair. His eyes flicked up to the unofficial motto of the Symposium, set in shiny brass letters:

 

## IMBIBO ERGO SVM

 

That settled his nerves a bit. He was a secret agent! And there was going to be alcohol! Drinking refined cocktails and flirting with beautiful women _was_ the job description! And besides, no woman had ever been able to resist his charms.

Well, _few_ women, corrected a voice in his head, which sounded very much like his logic instructor.

But this one... he could tell she was different, somehow. Miss Wisdom, Aristotle had called her. John Locke could remember her face, her brown hair blowing in the wind... even amidst the blood-soaked haze and the persistent whine of bullets, he could see that her expression was that of absolute peace.

It was captivating.

John Locke straightened his bow-tie nervously, slicked his hair back one last time, and strode in through the double-doors with what he hoped was confidence.

Some of the newer agents looked up from their drinks, but many of the experienced ones had enough self-assurance to continue their conversations or continue drinking themselves into a stupor. Not many people paid attention to John Locke as he cast around the room, looking for that alluring brown mane.

There was no sign of her. Deflating slightly, John Locke made his way to the bar. The man behind the bar was polishing a glass industriously.

“Evenin’, Mister Locke,” he said jovially.

“Good evening, Monty,” said John Locke, sliding onto a stool. He liked Monty the bartender, who was generally a reasonable man who knew how to make conversation, although he did have the tendency to keep the change regardless of whether you asked him to. The man also strange way of speaking; he’d had some muscle atrophy around his jaw, and so when he spoke his lips never moved, but his lower jaw swung up and down like a nutcracker doll’s. It defied most laws of anatomy, but John Locke had long gotten used to it.

“Neck feeling alright, sir?”

“What? Oh, this? It’s healed up by now, surely,” said John Locke, tearing away the bandage. The tender new skin tingled in the cool air.

“What can I get you for, sir?” asked Monty, stowing the glass away in some hidden compartment under the bar.

“A drink please,” replied John Locke.

“Of course, sir. Any particular reason you keep looking over your shoulder, sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, just... looking out for someone,” said John Locke, hastily.

“Oh, I see,” said Monty, leaning down over the counter and winking conspiratorially. “Always watching your back, that’s the trick, isn’t it, sir? In case some daft bugger comes up from behind and fallacies you in the unmentionables?”

“Umm, yes, that’s right,” said John Locke, distractedly. No, she’s too short... no, that one’s blonde... no, that’s just Agent Wollstonecraft, educating people about the patriarchy...

“What’s your poison, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Which alcoholic beverage would be your preference tonight, Mister Locke?” Monty asked, pointedly. “Only there’s another man who’s just seated himself further down the bar, and I’ve got a business to run.”

“Oh, sorry. Well, eh, let’s start with a small margarita, shall we?”

“I’m afraid we’re all out of margaritas, sir.”

“Never mind. How are you on screwdrivers?”

“Never at the end of the week, sir.”

“Tish tish, no matter. Well then, four ounces of Cognac, if you please, stout yeoman.”

“Ah,” said Monty, rubbing his chin. “It’s been on order for two weeks, sir, was expecting it this morning.”

“Yes, it’s not my day, is it?” said John Locke. “Hmm, a piña colada?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Mimosa?”

“Normally yes, sir. Today the van broke down.”

“Ah. A stinger?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Horse’s Neck? Tequila Sunrise?”

“No.”

“Mint julep?”

“No.”

“B-52?”

“No.”

“Any Italian Screaming Orgasm, by any chance?”

“No, sorry, sir,” said Monty, shaking his head, “not since the wife left.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”

There was a pause.

“Grasshopper?”

“No.”

“Irish coffee?”

“No.”

“Bellini?”

“No.”

“Whiskey sour?”

“No.”

“Harvey Wallbanger?”

“Nnnnnnnn–” said Monty, leaning back to peer under the counter, “nnnnno. Sorry.”

“Cuba Libre, Sidecar, Boilermaker, Caipirinha, French Connection, Angel Face, Yellow Bird, Tom and Jerry?

“No.”

“A Long Island Iced Tea, perhaps?”

“Ah!” said Monty, “We do have some Long Island Iced Tea, sir!”

John Locke was surprised. “You do? Excellent.”

“Yes, sir. It’s, ah, it’s bit... warm, sir,” said Monty, hesitantly.

“Oh, I like it warm.”

“I think it’s a bit warmer that you’d like it, sir.”

“I don’t care how warm it is,” snapped John Locke. “Hand it over post-haste!”

“Yes, sir.” Monty ducked under the bar, then came up again. “Oh dear!”

“Oh, what now?”

“The cat’s drank it.”

John Locke’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Has he, now?”

“She, sir.”

Pause.

“Sake bomb?”

“No.”

“Firecracker?”

“No.”

“Mudslide?”

“No.”

“You _have_ got some alcohol, haven’t you?” John Locke’s arms were crossed, and he was tapping a foot against the footrest impatiently.

“Of course, sir!” said Monty, brightly. “We _are_ a tavern, sir! We’ve got–”

“No, no,” said John Locke, “I’d like to guess.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“Applejack?”

“No.”

“Salty Dog?”

“No.”

“Singapore Sling?”

“No.”

“How about just a Carlsberg, then?”

“I’m afraid we don’t get much call for that around here, sir.”

“Not much call– why, it’s probably the most popular beer in the world!” exclaimed John Locke.

“Not around here, sir.”

“Well, what _is_ the most popular drink around here?”

“The martini, sir.”

“Ah. All right. Okay. Have you _got_ a martini, then?” he asked, expecting the answer “no”.

“I’ll have to check in the back, sir.”

“Please do.”

Monty the bartender shuffled away. It was quite something to see Monty move. A leg would kick up into the air before coming down to do a half-skip while his other foot slid forward, the knees would bend slightly while he took a half-step backwards, then goosestep one leg forward while the other leg did a forward aerial half-turn every alternate step. Small children would pay money to watch Monty depart from his apartment. Scientists had set up observation posts to study it.

John Locke swung around on his barstool, and collapsed onto the bar, exasperated.

“I see you are having problems vith zee barman?” said a voice.

John Locke looked up into what he would have called a billboard if it wasn’t attached to a face. His gaze followed the broad expanse upwards to the widow’s peak, which trailed downwards on both sides to short curls level with the ears. John Locke had heard of hair framing the features before; this one was like one of those ornate ones that would not have looked out of place in a Renaissance art gallery. It even surrounded a face that looked like it came out of a Renaissance painting; the observer could tell it belonged to a young person, but at the same time, it looked extremely old.

Then there was the nose. If the forehead was a runway, the nose could have been the control tower. If its owner turned his head around quickly, it could have poked out an eye.

“I’m sure I’ll get it right eventually,” said John Locke. The man must have sidled up from the other end of the bar.

“I find zat you only need to make up a double entendre,” said Kant. His voice was crisp and guttural. “All of zem are like zat.”

“I’ve been drinking here for over ten years,” said John Locke.

The man looked mildly surprised. “Kontinuvously?” he asked, with a grin.

At this point Monty jiggled, skipped and tiptoed back into view. “I’m happy to report that we have the ingredients for a Discourse Martini, sir. Oh, and good evening, sir,” he said, turning to the other man. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Double entendres,” the man said to John Locke, tapping the side of his nose. He turned to address the bartender. “I’ll have an Archimedean Skrew, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Monty, turning back to John Locke. “And would sir like to have a Discourse Martini?”

“Yes, please. Spoken, not slurred.”

“At once, sir,” said Monty, shuffling, hopping, and tap-dancing away again.

“May I ask, vhat is a ‘Diskourse Martini’?”

“It’s like a dirty martini, except garnished with an essay.” John Locke proffered a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. Care to tell me your name?”

The man shook his hand. “Kant,” he replied.

“I see,” said John Locke. “Undercover, are you?”

“No, my name is Kant. Immanuel Kant.”

“I know, I was only kidding. I’ve seen your name around. I’m–”

“Oh, I know vho _you_ are, Herr Locke,” said the man. “I’ve been assigned to your unit.”

John Locke winced. “New, are you?”

“Vas promoted to Agent schtatus last Vednesday,” replied Kant, proudly.

“Blast,” said John Locke. “All fired up and ready to make a difference in the world, are we?”

“Of kourse. It is my duty to do some good in zee vorld!”

“Even if you get killed?” asked John Locke.

“Ja! I am kompelled to do good, regardless of utility!” said Kant, thumping his chest.

John Locke shook his head. “That’s dangerous thinking. You are misunderstanding your obligation to natural law.”

“But I have zee youthful vigour und energy!”

“Look around,” said John Locke wearily. “There are always many new agents with youthful vigour. But there are very few senior agents. Do you know why?”

“Zey are promoted to administrative positions?” Kant said, innocently.

“No, it’s because they don’t usually last long enough to _become_ senior agents.” John Locke sighed. It was going to be frustrating, dragging a rookie along on the hunt for the Idols. Maybe one of the other agents can babysit him for me, he thought.

“Anyone else on our team here?” he asked. Monty had ambled, sidestepped, and lurched back with their cocktails, and John Locke took a sip.

“Vell, I haven’t met everyvun,” said Kant, biting off the olive from the little paper umbrella, which was threaded and had been screwed through the garnish. “I did hear zat lady mention somezink about zee Idols, zough.”

“What did she say?”

“I zink her exact vords vere, ‘everyvun knows zey don’t exist’.”

The woman in question was speaking to another man across the room, whose back was to them. John Locke motioned to catch her attention, but she only responded at the second wave. She nodded at his direction, excused herself from the conversation she was having, and jerked her head towards an empty table in the centre of the bar.

“I zink she vants us to move over zere.”

Shrugging, John Locke picked up his martini and sauntered over to the table. He knew the woman, and it wasn’t the elusive Miss Wisdom. He heard the scrape of the barstool, which meant Kant was following behind.

“Why did you have us move over, Simone?” he asked, as he sprawled into a seat.

“Equality,” said the woman, and that was it.

“Ah. Right. Um, may I introduce you to Immanuel Kant?”

The woman called Simone accepted the handshake. “Monsieur Kant, how delightful it is to meet you,” she said, with the barest hint of an accent. “My name is Simone de Beauvoir.”

John Locke, who was craning his neck to see behind de Beauvoir, heard the gasp of surprise.

“No vunder you look so familiar!” exclaimed Kant. “You are a legend, Frau de Beauvoir! You’re in zee textbooks ve read! You’re praised by all zee lecturers! You must be zee Konzortium’s top agent!”

John Locke cleared his throat loudly.

“One of zem, anyvay,” said Kant, smoothly.

John Locke looked around. There was Kant, gazing at Simone in adoration. Though he usually preferred his women with, shall we say, a bit less maturity than Simone de Beauvoir, he had to admit that there was a kind of handsomeness in her weathered features. Her face was lined, a product of the Mediterranean winds of southern France, which was where she usually operated. If only she’d let her hair down; she enjoyed tying it into a tight bun, which might more appropriately be called a roll, or possibly a croissant, across the top of her head.

“I am flattered, Mister Kant, but this is not the time for compliments.” She turned to address John Locke. “Listen, Locke, I understand that I have been assigned to your mission?”

John Locke mumbled some affirmative.

“Yes, I thought you preferred working alone. And I prefer not to be under the command of men. But Aristotle has put us together, it seems.” She drew herself up to her full height, which was rather impressive considering she was still sitting down. “I want to make it clear, Locke, that I take your orders as an equal, no? There is to be no subject-object relationship between us, is that clear? I am not one of your starlets to be charmed by your rugged good looks, your rich, deep baritone, and your equally rich and deep pockets.”

“My dear Simone, you offended me,” said John Locke in mock outrage. He was very sure that the word ‘starlet’ could never be used to describe de Beauvoir, unless you were comparing here to a small, fiery, and above all _ancient_ astronomical body. “I have known you for many years. We will be colleagues in this endeavour. My position in our working relationship will be strictly professional.”

“Good,” she said, crossing her legs with a rustle of cloth. De Beauvoir wore the regulation suit that all Consortium agents wore, but over the dark trousers she wore a simple, black skirt that trailed down to her ankles. She always reasoned that just because you could do whatever a man could do, didn’t mean that you had to _only_ do when the men did.

“Is there any reason you keep looking over my shoulder, Locke?” she asked.

“Just... looking out for other members of the team.”

“Well, you are facing the wrong way,” said de Beauvoir, sniffing. “She’s coming up behind you.”

John Locke spun round so fast he cricked his neck. But instead of the rapturous vision of paradise he was expecting, he was greeted by a short, slim woman with cropped auburn hair, high cheekbones, and a jawline that you could have used to saw wood. She was not unattractive, but the only way she would have been a “rapturous vision” would be if she descended from the sky during the Second Coming. In addition to the standard suit, she had a severe grey scarf around her neck.

She was arguing with another man; or rather, she was arguing _at_ another man. He had wavy, raven-dark hair which flowed to his shoulders, a pencil moustache and a small goatee on the cusp of his lower lip. The woman’s side of the conversation seemed very emphatic, whereas the man merely wore an enigmatic expression of absolute surety. His right eyebrow was cocked, and there was a slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth, suggesting that he undoubtedly knew something that you didn’t.

John Locke groaned. Not them, not them, _anything_ but Rand and Descartes...

He could make out the woman’s words as the pair approached. “...makes no sense to vyork for pyrsuit ov abstract, idealistic ‘goodness’. It tyis only lyogical and rational to vyork for the benefit ov own hyappiness!” the woman exclaimed.

“Ah,” said the man, with a voice like champagne, “but surely, mademoiselle, zere eez a, ‘ow shall we say, zovereign goodnez, no? A kind of spiritual pleazure zat compelz one to work towards what eez ethical?”

“Nyet! I do nyot believe in this syubjective reality of yours.” She stomped over to where John Locke was sitting. “Gospodin Locke! You agree with me, da? Is a man nyot entitled to the sweat of his own brow?”

John Locke was taken aback. “I do agree that you are allowed possession of the fruits of your own labour,” he muttered, “but I think–”

“Da! And so hyappiness is one’s own vyen one vyorks for it!” She must have found this explanation satisfactory, because she dropped into an empty chair, pulled out a notebook and started scribbling furiously.

Kant looked worried. “Ze paper is about to catch fire, fraulein,” he said.

The venomous look the woman shot him would have made a viper proud.

“Are you writing another novel, Ayn?” asked John Locke.

“It tyis cyoming along,” said Ayn Rand, without looking up.

John Locke gritted his teeth. He rather disliked Ayn Rand, who was usually off in a world of her own. She had a tendency for selfish behaviour which could be passed off as self-reliance in a poor light. Though, to be fair, she wasn’t one of those who preached self-reliance when you approached her for help, but then pestered you for assistance whenever she needed it. She kept to herself, and continuously strove for excellence. It unnerved him, and he hated it.

And he could never understand why she enjoyed writing books. The woman had barely a spark of imagination. If she was any more grounded, you could have stuck her on top of tall buildings to attract lightning. And if you did that, you’d just be giving her an excuse to better look down on other people.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Locke,” said Rene Descartes. He had not pulled up a chair, but lounged against a nearby pillar like a lizard.

“Descartes.”

Verbal acknowledgement was usually more than John Locke afforded to Rene Descartes. It would be linguistically accurate to say that he _despised_ the man, but you would probably get away with using “loathed” and “abhorred” as well. It was probably something to do with the way Descartes approached life, as if he merely had to convince himself that he existed, and everything else would work out somehow. He was always so poised, so persistently self-sure; and while John Locke was aware that he too was equally suave and debonair, he huddled in his self-confidence like a blanket, whereas Descartes wore his like a cloak of royalty, the kind with a fur trim. Despite all his faults, John Locke never _swaggered_.

“It seemz we are both azzigned to _l’impossible mission_ ,” said Descartes.

“Yes. Didn’t want the leadership position though,” replied John Locke, without thinking, “but old Tot wouldn’t say no–”

“So you would not mind if I azzumed command?” asked Descartes, in a tone that would have slid through butter.

“Not on your life!” retorted John Locke. “You wouldn’t catch me taking orders from a... a _rationalist_!”

“Now, now,” said Descartes, idly checking his fingernails. “It eez unbecoming of a gentleman to uze such language.”

“Vut is wrong vith rational thinking, may I ask?” said Kant, coldly.

“Da,” chimed in Ayn Rand, looking up from her notepad. “Do you have syomething against lyogical and ordered thinking?”

“I never thought you the irrational type, Locke,” said de Beauvoir, mildly.

John Locke spluttered. “No, of course– I didn’t mean... it’s not so much _rational_ as– look, some of my best friends are rational–”

“You have friends?” asked Descartes, with feigned surprise.

“–but I’ve always been empirical, you all know that,” said John Locke, ignoring him. “I stand by my belief that you can’t know anything _a priori_ , it just doesn’t happen like th–”

The was an uproar from the rest of the table.

“I vould argue zat it is possible for _a priori_ knowledge–”

“–hyave nyever accepted this nyonsense–”

“–always thought that we make our own meaning–”

John Locke buried his face in his hands. This wasn’t a team; this was an argument waiting to happen.

“–cyannot gyet syomething from nyothing, so lyogically–”

“–like _zis_ , so space und time can be experienced _a priori_ –”

“–zee basiz for a worldview starting with onezelf–”

“Excuse me, are you Agent Locke?”

There should have been trumpets, John Locke thought later, when his cheeks had cooled down and his ears had stopped buzzing. They should have been a fanfare, and a chorus of angels... perhaps a rainbow, and one of those shining rays of light from the heavens. Unfortunately, Monty the barman had chosen that precise moment to entertain a couple of patrons with his famous drinking song, so that when John Locke spun around to face the beautiful image of Miss Wisdom, it was to the long, lilting strains of “Iiiiiiiiiimanuel Kant / was a real pissant / who was very rarely stable...”

“Y-yes, that’s me,” stuttered John Locke, stumbling to his feet.

“Sophia Wisdom, at your service,” she said.

“Ch-charmed to m-make your acquaintance,” he replied, reaching out to shake her hand and managing it on the second try.

“...and Wittgenstein / was a beery swine / who was just a sloshed as Schlegel...”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Agent Locke,” she said. Her accent was clean and precise, and it danced through John Locke’s ears like a ballerina on opening night.

“Oh, r-really?” John Locke was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact with her. She hadn’t let go of his hand, and his skin was starting to tingle.

He was vaguely aware that the argument around the table had died down, and he could feel the stares of his colleagues hot on his collar. Monty was still singing, though; “Aristotle, Aristotle / was a bugger for the bottle” was carousing merrily around the bar.

“Quite,” said Sophia Wisdom, holding her gaze.

“All, er, all good things, I hope?” John Locke was sure he was visibly sweating. He forced his free hand to stay where it was, preventing it from jerking up and grabbing his pocket square to wipe his brow.

“Good enough,” said Sophia, primly. She had finally released John Locke’s hand.

“Ah, ahahahahaha,” said John Locke mechanically, “Good enough, hahaha, nice one– ah, ahem.” He stopped when he realised that there was nothing but silence from the fully-seated table behind him.

“Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed /

A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he’s pissed!”

The song ended with a _sproing_. There was a polite applause from Monty’s customers. He indulged them with a bow.

While John Locke was pulling himself together, Sophia Wisdom stepped briskly past him and made her way around the table.

“Nice to meet you... hello, pleasure... I’m Sophia Wisdom...”

“R-right, so the, er, the team’s all here, then?” said John Locke. He turned to address the other agents, and attempted to look sharp at the same time, which unfortunately just made him look like a fancy, arthritic waiter. “Tot said we are to report to the Hephaestium to get kitted out, so let’s get right to it, then.”

“Vunderful!” exclaimed Kant, making to stand up. “I have alvays vunted to have my own secret age–oooww!”

“What I think young Monsieur Kant is saying,” de Beauvoir cut in smoothly, “is that we have already been assigned our equipment.” John Locke could see the knowing look in her eye, and the mischievous grin she was wearing would have looked more at home on an invisible cat.

“I zink you stepped on my foot, Frau Simone,” said Kant, reproachfully.

“Oh, I do apologise, it is so hard getting used to these heels,” said Simone, never taking her eyes off John Locke.

“Oh, come now,” he pleaded, every pore oozing desperation. “Not every one of you has gone to see P, surely?”

“I vas saying, I have not gotten my– arrgghh, Frau de Beauvoir, I must ask that you ceaze–”

“All decked out in the latest gadgets and gizmos,” repeated de Beauvoir, over Kant’s mumbled swearing.

“We wyere briefed by Aristotle while you wyere recyuperating,” said Ayn Rand. “We hyave everything we need.”

“I don’t,” muttered Kant, “I am unvilling to embark unprepared for zee– ha, you missed!” There was a thump, as of an expensive black high heel treading heavily onto the parquet flooring.

“Monsieur Kant,” said Simone abruptly, rising from her seat like the construction of the Eiffel Tower. “I think we should go ahead and check that our transport is amenable, no? Would you care to join me, Monsieur Descartes? Mademoiselle Rand?”

“I hyave always hyated travelling by boat,” said Ayn Rand, packing up her notebook. “I hyope we dyon’t crash intyo any undyerwater cities.”

John Locke caught Descartes grinning at him. “I suppoze we should be getting on. After you, Madame de Bouvoir.”

“We will be making a move, then, Locke,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t take too long, eh? Our ship leaves in half an hour. Come _on_ , Monsieur Kant.”

“Vhen am I to get my secret agent gadgets, then?” he grumbled, but followed the rest of them as they scraped their chairs noisily and made a big show of leaving.

John Locke turned to Sophia. “I, uh, I don’t suppose you’ve gotten your equipment yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” replied Sophia. “I’ve only just arrived here.” She gave John Locke another little heartbeat-skipping smile. “Looks like it’s just you and me, then, Agent Locke?”

“Yes– er, right,” said John Locke, tugging at his collar.

He hurried forward, highly conscious of Sophia’s heels clicking on the floorboards behind him. Simone de Beauvoir and the others were just exiting the Symposium’s double doors.

John Locke was sure that Descartes was deliberately taunting him, because he heard him whisper very audibly, “‘E is attracted to Mademoiselle Wisdom, no?”

“Shhh, not right now,” said Simone, glancing over her shoulder. She gave John Locke a small wink.

“...vaited a vhole veek to get my gadgets...”

“Only,” said Descartes, in his carrying whisper, “zee sexual tenzion in zee air was hot enough to roast a–”

“SO, MISS WISDOM!” bellowed John Locke frantically, “DO YOU, uh, DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?”


End file.
